Good thing this beach house was so secluded, he thought. Somebody might have called the cops on him, the way he was nosing around it…

Wait. Why this beach house? The answer was staring him in the face. Number fifteen rented at a premium for a reason, and it wasn’t the view—every beach house had a view. All were spectacular. None were this isolated. The privacy number fifteen afforded renters seemed like overkill, if all they planned to do was go for morning walks on the beach and sit on the back porch and read. But it wasn’t overkill if your livelihood was on the line.

Location, location, location.

That’s what Nora had said when Cyrus had asked her how she and her Viking had never got caught fooling around.

Tiny parish in a small town. And with the priest shortage, Søren didn’t have to share the parish house with any other priests. Which is good. That place was tiny. But it was way back in the woods, trees everywhere, and to get to it, you had to drive in from a side street. Very secluded.

But if Father Ike was having an affair with somebody…who the hell was it?

Cyrus was going to have to meditate on that. But not until he got home and was feeling safe in his own place.

On the drive back, he tried instead to think about Paulina, her long legs around his shoulders, the taste of her, the sound of her coming.

But even that didn’t work.

All the way back to Nola, Cyrus could only think of one thing:

What the hell was Father Ike planning to do in that secluded beach house for two months?

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Good Witch, Mercedes’s occult shop, was located in the Irish Channel, on the corner of Tchoupitoulas and 7th. Even after three years, Nora was still struggling to pronounce the city’s street names like a local. Tchoupitoulas, though, she had in the bag: “Chop-a-Two-Liss.” Just as long as no one asked her to spell it.

Nora drove a block past the shop and parked on a side-street. On the off-chance dogs were allowed in The Good Witch, she leashed Gmork and took him with her. Otherwise, she’d have to leave him tied outside the store. Not a problem, really. Wasn’t like anyone was going to try to steal a huge black German Shepherd wearing a spiked dog collar.

The storefront of The Good Witch was painted lavender with a creamy white trim. The display window was brightly-colored with stained-glass hangings of harvest scenes, owls and ravens and deer, triple-phase moons, and the strange faces of men grinning through green foliage. On the door, a sign declared the shop Open. A brass plaque next to the door was engraved with the words Familiars Welcome.

“I guess that’s you, boy,” Nora said to Gmork.

She pushed open the door and heard a gentle tinkling of bells. A string of silver bells on a golden cord hung on the back of the doorknob. Nora spotted Mercedes behind a counter, on the opposite side of the store. A customer—a well-heeled white woman of about fifty—was chatting to her. Nora only caught a few words, something about arthritis inflammation. Mercedes was recommending spearmint tea in addition to whatever compound she was preparing for the woman.